I'm Still Here
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: 'When Mycroft emerges again and reappears in the cold corridor, he has only one sentence to say: "He wants to go home." A final wish. A parting wish. John presses his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling. Finally, he nods slowly. "Then we will take him home."' - All things end, but John has never assumed to be the one to witness his best friend dying twice.
1. Part 1

I don't own any of the characters.

Enjoy.

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_I__'__m Still Here_

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He has never thought it would end like this. He has never thought that one day he would have to make a call in order for his best friend to be hospitalised. Well, not that it is surprising in general, but it hasn't happened in a while, and since they are no longer chasing criminals on a regular base, it simply isn't supposed to happen anymore.

But, apparently, it has.

He should have known for a while that something was amiss. Shortness of breath, even just due to climbing a few stairs, looking absolutely fatigued and exhausted. The pills he has found once in the bathroom, laying at the sink as if forgotten. But then, his time as a practicing doctor has been over for a while, and one never knows with Sherlock Holmes.

He remembers his initial reaction after he finally has found out. Shock. Disbelief. Followed by the realisation that it has to be true. The only possible explanation.

Heart failure. The heart losing its ability to provide body and organs with both blood and oxygen. The heart his best friend has always denied to possess is failing, giving up. Just like that.

And now John is sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a cold and too bright hospital corridor, not waiting for news anymore, but simply for the end.

xxx

Heart failure. He still finds it difficult to believe.

They have had a long conversation about Sherlock's condition, he remembers, shortly after John has confronted him with the truth.

Medication, beta-blockers, nitrates, diuretics, nothing seems to be taking effect any more, and it's only a matter of time.

"Have you ever… ahem… considered a transplantation?," he has thrown in, without thinking it through, simply looking for a way out.

Sherlock had almost laughed at him. "Transplantation? Really, John? Who'd put me on that list? At my age, with my history of drug abuse and smoking? Really. Ridiculous."

And he has been right, as much as it hurts John. This one time, there is no way out.

xxx

John has moved back in again, not out of pity, as he ensures Sherlock. And it's true, his motivation is not rooted in compassion. Fear. John is afraid. It is the fear that his friend will simply fade away, die alone in his flat, suffer on his own, with nobody around to be there for him. It is the fear of letting Sherlock down, of leaving him, one last time. John can't bear the thought of himself not being with Sherlock in his last few minutes.

Moving back to 221B feels like moving back into his own past. Their past, the days when they both were so much younger. Young and healthy, full of energy, hope and recklessness.

The symptoms have increased slowly, but steadily. Living upstairs is no longer less than an inconvenience, no, it takes effort on Sherlock's side to manage the stairs to their - once his, now their again - flat. It even takes effort to breathe at night, as he has told John one evening, quite late, and this simple remark, not even meant to be a complaint, has left John almost frightened to death. What if Sherlock simply stopped breathing in his sleep? Three pillows are now helping him to breathe at night.

Maybe it would have been for the better, he thinks now. Quick. Painless. Easy. Without suffering.

Because suffering it has been, what John has seen. Sherlock on the floor, unable to draw breath, gasping for air. Cold, clammy skin, low blood pressure. Acute decompensated heart failure.

The ambulance seemingly has needed ages to finally arrive. In time. This time. John doesn't even want to think about the next time. Or the time after that.

He hides his face in his hands. And he knows that, rather sooner than later, he will have to face the death of his best friend.

No. Not now. He needs to focus on the moment, not speculate about what might or will happen. Sherlock is alive, he is being helped right now. In good hands. That is what John has to believe in.

xxx

John is not surprised that it has taken Mycroft not even an hour to arrive at the hospital.

Mycroft still seems his usual self, as always, even now, in old age, dressed in a suit, carrying an umbrella, everything still impeccable. Apart from his long since grey hair and the deepened wrinkles in his face, he might still be the same man he has been years, decades ago.

"Thank you for phoning me," is his only greeting to John.

John simply nods. Mycroft has known about his brother's condition, of course, for a much longer time than John. He has never completely figured out Mycroft's position nowadays, but he still seems in charge of something, still powerful and of high renown. It can always be helpful to have Mycroft here.

They sit in silence. It is difficult to find words when there is nothing left to say.

Surprising or simply devastating, it doesn't take one of the doctors - so young, John cannot help but think - long to approach them, with information. John stiffens - what news can there be now? Redemption is beyond, the only hope that is still left is the one for painlessness.

"He's sleeping now," the nameless young man informs them. Sleeping. Because of pain medication and sedation, as John assumes. "If you'd like, you can see him."

xxx

And so John moves from the long corridor to the hospital room, his gaze never leaving the only bed inside and its occupant.

It is not only now that he realises how frail Sherlock has become, how old and tired, simply tired, he looks. Worn. Ill. His face is almost gaunt, the shadows under his eyes dark and deep, his hand with the IV cannula thin, too much so now. Watching him breathing is reassuring, on the one hand - no respiratory distress any longer, but then… there's a mask over his face, clouding unsteadily -and that's the worst part - which each exhale.

He is not in pain, thanks to the medication which has been administered. Palliative care. Nothing more. Not yet on the verge of death - of which he will not be coming back this time -, but nonetheless dying, ever so slowly.

Suddenly, John feels like choking. It hasn't been too difficult to keep his emotions under control, back at home, in 221B, but now, here, with no-one watching him except for Mycroft in the chair close to the window, he has to fight tears and grief back.

"I guess I…uh… I just need a bit of air," he tells Mycroft. "I'll be back any second."

And so, with a last glance at Sherlock, he leaves the hospital room and walks down a few corridors, blinking hard and biting his lip. It is so hard to face the fact that he is about to lose his best friend.

xxx

When he comes back a few minutes later, when he opens the door of Sherlock's room again, he perceives something which has never been meant for his eyes. Just a short glance, that is enough.

Mycroft Holmes, the former British government, has shoved his chair close, as close as possible, to his little brother's hospital bed and holds one of his hands. Sherlock's eyes flicker to John as he is about to enter, and a half-smile crosses his face when John turns back and retreats to the corridor.

They are just brothers, after all. No matter their family name or history, their intellect or anything which might have been between them in younger years - Sherlock is still Mycroft's little brother. And John knows, has probably, deep in his heart, known for a long time, that Mycroft will miss Sherlock almost as much as John will.

xxx

When Mycroft emerges again and reappears in the cold corridor, he has only one sentence to say: "He wants to go home."

A final wish. A parting wish. John presses his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling. Finally, he nods slowly. "Then we will take him home."

xxx

Sherlock tries to smile at John when he approaches the bed once again, Mycroft having left in order to organise Sherlock's discharge from hospital. The oxygen mask is still on his face - not a good sign, John realises at once. If somehow possible, Sherlock would have taken it off immediately. Breathing must be challenging, now.

John smiles, too. "Breathing isn't so boring anymore, is it?" Banter. Don't talk about anything serious.

Sherlock's smile deepens beneath the mask, but exhaustion quickly takes over. He closes his eyes for a moment. John grabs one of his hands. Whether for Sherlock's comfort or his own - he doesn't know. And, right now, he doesn't even care anymore.

"Mycroft has told me," he continues. "We're going home."

John feels Sherlock's weak grip. "Thank… you," he mutters from beneath the mask.


	2. Part 2

Characters are not mine.

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_I'm Still Here_

Part 2

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xxx

Sherlock nods off again later, obviously exhausted.

When Mycroft finally returns, John is still in the same position, Sherlock's hand in his.

Mycroft clears his throat. "I assume we should wait until he wakes again," he states.

Almost reluctantly, John lets go of Sherlock's hand and places it carefully on the duvet. He stretches his aching back and massages the brink of his nose with one hand. "How do we get to Baker Street?," he asks then. "We can't take a cab. Sherlock can't." The thought of his friend being shoved into a narrow cab and then being pulled out of it again nearly sickens John physically.

"I know. Don't worry. Everything is arranged for," Mycroft assures him. "I'll be in the cafeteria. Call me when anything changes." For good or for worse, John adds in his head.

Mycroft leaves his little brother's hospital room, impeccable and proper as always. But this is the first time John actually notices Mycroft's slight limp and his leaning heavily on his umbrella. Time has passed, he finally realises.

xxx

John has to wait quite a while for Sherlock to wake up, and when he does, it takes him a few more minutes to fully come to. There is a painful sting in his heart as John watches Sherlock looking at him with unfocused, almost vacant eyes, clearly disoriented.

"John," he finally mumbles.

John gets up from the bed, after squeezing Sherlock's hand once more. "We're going home, remember?" He turns to the cupboard in the room in order to get Sherlock's trousers and jacket. It's cold outside, and momentarily he's only wearing a hospital gown. Much too thin.

As he's placing both on the duvet, Sherlock is already fumbling with the oxygen mask. Although it is hard to watch his shaking hands, John decides not to interfere, to let Sherlock get it done by himself.

"Can you sit up a bit?," he asks, although Sherlock is already propped up against a large amount of pillows. Carefully, they move him into a fully upright position, and John simply puts the jacket over the gown. To get Sherlock into the trousers needs even more time, both time and effort, and once they're finished, Sherlock's breathing sounds laboured, flat, quick gasps.

"Just stay here and rest for a moment," John orders. "I'll be back right away."

And then, heading to the cafeteria to inform Mycroft about being ready for departure, he, for the first time, is afraid to imagine how exhausting the journey to 221B will become for his friend.

xxx

They are offered a wheelchair by the nurse, which John gladly accepts. Carrying Sherlock is not an option either for him or Mycroft - neither is walking for Sherlock. The few steps from the bed to the wheelchair leave him shaking, visibly paling, although he tries to wave it off. "I'm fine," is what he mutters under his breath, but he can no longer deceive John. He's clearly not, and both of them know it.

The ride in the car, van, whatever, from the hospital is quiet, Sherlock's eyes have closed on their own account, Mycroft is staring out of the window and John secretly watches Sherlock.

They reach 221B before nightfall, Mycroft fumbling with the keys John has given to him while John himself navigates the wheelchair to the door.

Sherlock locks his gaze on John. "No use for the wheelchair," he points out, his voice stronger than it's been before. "The flat is too narrow. Let them take it back. I'll have to walk upstairs."

As much as John loathes this option, he knows it's the most plausible one. There is no way two old men can carry a wheelchair plus inhabitant up the narrow staircase.

"Alright," he agrees.

Sherlock, still being himself, gets to his feet on his own, his legs trembling ever so slightly. John, just having finished talking to their driver who will indeed take the wheelchair back to the hospital, hurries back to his friend's side to support him, Mycroft joining him on Sherlock's right side.

They manage the stairs.

Barely, but they do.

John feels the stiffness in his shoulder and the ache in his back when they have finally reached the living room, Sherlock hanging more or less limply on his shoulder, like a rag-doll.

"Bedroom," he grunts, and after a few more excruciatingly tiring steps he and Mycroft carefully place Sherlock on his bed.

The pillows are still in place, and with a relieved exhale Sherlock rests his head back. John's brow furrows as he studies Sherlock: pale face, lips a light shade of blue, fast breathing, panting, his eyes closed, his face tense. In pain.

Without any concrete intention, he crouches over Sherlock and takes his wrist in his hand, measuring his pulse. Too fast.

He only realises that he stays in this position for at least five minutes, to feel the reassuring normalising of Sherlock's pulse when he notices Mycroft hovering in the door. John turns his head.

"Do you need any medication for him?," is the question.

"I'm not… deaf," Sherlock hisses, John nodding simultaneously. They deliberately left the cannula in the back of Sherlock's left hand - John is aware that his friend will need further pain medication. Morphine.

When he reconnects the IV line, removes Sherlock's shoes and then covers him with a blanket, he is thanked with a familiar half-smile. "Administering drugs, doctor?," Sherlock teases. "There were… times when you didn't… even give me… cigarettes, and now mor… morphine? You're growing… old, doctor, it seems."

John has to smile. "Sleep." He has already reached the doorway when he turns once more. "I still won't give you cigarettes."

Sherlock chuckles in the dim light of his room.

xxx

After he has made sure for three times that Sherlock is soundly asleep, John finally settles down in one of the armchairs - new ones, of course - in the flat, nodding off after typing a few messages on his phone.

Mycroft Holmes watches his brother's flatmate for a while, noticing the lines of worry now embedded in his face.

Although he himself is not a doctor, he knows that it will not be long. His brother does not have much time left.

And this, as he only dares to admit to himself when no-one is watching, unsettles him.

Mycroft has known about his brother's health issues for a much longer time than John Watson. Obviously. It is never difficult to see, to observe signs of a heart disease, not even when his brother is concerned. How good an act he might have put up for the good doctor, this time, Sherlock has not been able to fool his older brother.

He now reassures himself that John is indeed sleeping, deeply, undisturbed, even snoring, and then slowly approaches his brother's bedroom.

There he simply stands for a while, in the dim light of the lamp on the, and watches his brother sleep.

His little brother. His baby brother.

As he's done so many times before, a long time ago, when they both were children and he was the one his brother would turn to for solace and consoling.

Mycroft's thoughts wander back to the former army doctor nodding in the living room. It is up to John Watson now, again, one last time, as it has been for so many years now. Mycroft's part in his brother's life has become smaller and smaller, and now, it seems, it is finally over.

"Don't hover… in the doorway," a voice suddenly startles him. Sherlock. Of course. No longer asleep, then.

Slowly, he fully approaches the bed in which his brother is almost sitting, and lowers himself to the edge of the mattress.

"I am not _hovering_," he said, his tone mocking as always. "I never _hover_, brother dear."

Sherlock's smile fades as quickly as it has appeared. Not long now, is the only deduction Mycroft allows his mind to produce.

An awkward silence spreads in the room, only disturbed by Sherlock's too loud breathing.

There are things Mycroft wants to say, many things, but chooses not to. Neither does he take Sherlock's hand again, as he has done in the hospital while his brother has still been sleeping.

"Why do… you look at me like… that?" Sherlock mumbles after a while, enquiring.

"Deduce me," is Mycroft's only answer.

Sherlock returns his gaze for a few seconds and then smiles again. "Thank you… My."

When Mycroft feels fingers softly brush against his hand, he does not hesitate any longer but firmly takes Sherlock's cold hand in his. He smiles, too, and suddenly sees no-one else than his annoying but yet loved baby brother lying in that bed, with a morphine drip in the back of his hand.

"You're welcome, brother dear."


	3. Part 3

As always, I don't own anything. Except for story line.

_I'm Still Here_

Part 3

xxx

When John wakes again in the morning, the living room is empty, Mycroft nowhere to be seen. Neither is his omnipresent umbrella.

After having struggled to get up from his armchair, with a stiff neck and stiff shoulders and legs not complying, John quietly approaches Sherlock's bedroom, with its door only half closed.

Sherlock is still sleeping, peacefully, as it seems, his head on the three pillows slightly turned towards John and the door. For a few moments he simply watches, reassuring himself that Sherlock is indeed slumbering, that everything is still fine.

John decides to let him sleep, to let him find some more undisturbed rest and silently closes the door again - half, of course, in case Sherlock needs him. He finds that he is not ready to take any chances, not after having had Sherlock hospitalised due to acute respiratory distress only hours before.

So he makes himself a cup of tea and sits down again with the mug in his hand, waiting. Waiting for his best friend to wake up.

xxx

Sherlock stirs maybe about an hour later, his quiet moaning and yawning alerting John.

"Oh, hi," he states, trying to sound nothing but normal, "you're awake."

Sherlock leans his head back and presses his eyes shut. "Obviously," he whispers.

John spares both of them the question how Sherlock is feeling, spares himself the only answer he will get - and the only truth.

"Just stay here," he says instead, silently checking Sherlock over with his eyes, "I'll bring you some breakfast."

He finally settles on two slices of toast, one with jam, the other one with peanut butter, together with a cup of tea, and places the tray on the edge of Sherlock's bed, sitting down right beside it.

Although John can see that Sherlock is not hungry, he nibbles at the toast and manages one piece, as well as half of the cup of tea. The times when John would accept a 'no' concerning Sherlock and food are long over.

John is aware of the uncomfortable silence stretching between them while Sherlock is chewing each bite carefully, in his half-upright, half lying down position. Eating. Food. Silence. Soon, there will be nothing more than silence between them, and this is what frightens John and leaves him speechless, leaves him distant from his best friend in that period of time when he probably needs him most.

"So er…," John begins clumsily. "Your brother left, apparently. Do you think he's coming back?"

Sherlock stops for a moment, eyeing John. "No," he then says slowly. "What for?"

xxx

What for.

The question, so short and to the point, keeps bothering John the entire morning as he is sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the empty fireplace.

What for.

Sherlock is sleeping again, having nodded off shortly after breakfast, still obviously exhausted from yesterday.

What for. What for does anyone do anything? What for is he here, with his best friend? To watch Sherlock suffer and finally die?

And what need is there for his brother to be here, too, to witness exactly this?

Is there any?

John takes a sip out of his mug and distantly realises that his tea has gone cold.

What for, echoes Sherlock's voice in his head.

What for does it have to be Sherlock? Sherlock who has survived everything before… including his own suicide.

Maybe there is no reason, none at all.

Something wet hits his cheeks.

And what for is he crying? Nothing he is going to do, going to attempt, absolutely nothing, will in the end stop the inevitable from happening.

And nonetheless he's here.

As he carelessly attempts to wipe away his tears, he has to smile. Of course he's still here. And of course he's crying. And of course he'll never stop doing anything for Sherlock.

Because he loves him.

And that, he realises dazedly through all his tears and his smile, might as well be the reason for Mycroft not being here, not coming back.

Because Sherlock's brother is well aware that John is here, will always be here, and maybe, just maybe - that's what John can't help but has to think if he remembers the previous afternoon in hospital and the scene he has come across to witness then - he isn't here because he simply can't watch his younger sibling die.

xxx

If Sherlock is aware that something is off, he doesn't say anything. He is sitting on the edge of his bed and is clearly attempting to get up.

John feels his heart make a sudden leap. "Sherlock!" he exclaims and rushes forward, grabbing his best friend's arm. "What do you think you are doing?"

Sherlock's lips curve into a frail smile. "Going to the living room, of course. I've…"

For a moment, John doesn't know if he is supposed to be angry or delighted. "Come on, then," he agrees and helps Sherlock to the sofa, mindful of the IV cannula and the drip stand he carries beside him.

When he aids Sherlock in settling down on the sofa, he is suddenly reminded of all the times his best friend simply flopped down on it, dramatically and carelessly. These days are long gone, too.

"Are you comfortable?" he wants to know and stuffs another pillow behind Sherlock's back.

"Per…fectly," Sherlock mumbles, out of breath again, his eyes closed.

He still looks tired, John has to think all of a sudden, and utterly exhausted. "Maybe…" he begins and is painfully aware of his red-rimmed eyes. "Maybe you should try to find some more sleep."

Sherlock cracks his eyes open and looks at John with an unreadable expression. He smiles again. "Why would I… want to s… sleep…. John? I'd rather… prefer Cluedo."

xxx

So they end up playing Cluedo, over and over again, until the tea John has made has gone cold again and he has to boil some more hot water to brew Sherlock's favourite tea.

John loses, of course, all the times. He doesn't mind.

"Didn't you once say that we were never playing it again?" Sherlock asks once, his eyes piercing John.

Putting down his mug, John shrugs. "Probably. Things change, though."

And as always, Sherlock sees through him. He raises his eyebrows until they almost disappear into the pillow he is resting on. "Fulfilling a dying man's wish," he remarks quietly.

John wonders for a moment if he is going to choke on the lump which has appeared in his throat all of a sudden. He can't find any words to say.

"Don't talk like that," he finally croaks, hiding his trembling left hand behind his back.

The Sherlock as he has met him, so many years ago, would certainly have replied something along the lines of 'why not? There's no use to sugarcoat the truth'. But John's Sherlock, the one lying on the sofa, huddled into a pale blue blanket which always reminds John of cyanotic lips, doesn't. "I'm sorry, John," he mumbles. "I wouldn't have thought…"

"Shut up."

He is not ready to hear this, to hear Sherlock apologising, saying goodbye. Not yet.

And surprisingly enough, Sherlock obeyes.


	4. Part 4

First: I don't own any characters.

Second: Thank you for all your reviews and favourites and for your following... Just thank you.

* * *

_I'm Still Here_

Part 4

xxx

They manage. Not great, in John's opinion, but good enough.

It won't be long now, that have been the doctor's words to John upon discharging Sherlock. Not long. Days, merely. Sherlock's heart is finally failing, the evidence for it clearly visible. Even for John, especially for John. Exhaustion, paleness, shallow breathing. Pain.

And yet, Sherlock's hanging on. Somehow. More or less.

It breaks John's heart to have to coax at least a bit of food into Sherlock even when he's still half-asleep or too exhausted to take more than a few bites. It breaks his heart each time he notices the swelling on Sherlock's ankles and shins, evidence of his failing heart. And his heart breaks each time he has to administer morphine as the only thing he can still do.

Oddly enough, there are the funny moments that hurt the most, the moments when he is almost able to pretend that everything is as it has been once.

When he's reading out files of cold cases to Sherlock, cases no-one has ever solved, and Sherlock, his eyes mostly closed, either on the sofa, if he can manage, or in his bed, deduces, just as he's always done it.

When they are watching telly - or rather, John is watching something, and Sherlock happens to be on the sofa, commenting in a hoarse voice, remarks that make John laugh or sigh in exasperation. At least until Sherlock turns silent, silent and still, and John finds himself in his armchair, his heart pounding in his ears, staring at his best friend's form on the sofa, nearly disappearing behind pillows and blankets. His heartbeat becomes even louder in his ears in the excrutiatingly long seconds it takes him to realise that Sherlock has simply nodded off, too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer. Simply sleeping.

xxx

They don't do much, actually. Sherlock is too weak to do anything else than hobble, heavily leaning on John and panting, the few steps from his bed to the sofa or to the toilet, and John is eager to not leave him alone, not for long.

"You didn't… put milk in… your tea," Sherlock remarks once, his own cuppa in his trembling hands.

John tries to shrug it off. "We're a bit short of milk. My doctor told me months ago that I should be more careful about what I'm eating and drinking…"

"John," Sherlock mumbles. "'m not…stupid. Why don't you… go and… buy some milk?"

Alone the thought of leaving makes John sick. Almost violently, he puts down his mug and causes the tea to spill. "I'm fine without milk in my tea," he says, still intending to avoid the topic.

Sherlock gives a quiet wince as he carefully sits up a bit. "You don't… don't have to sit… here… all the time…," he breathes. "'m not… going any… where."

Of course John notices the thin sheen of sweat forming on Sherlock's forehead. "But how do I know that?" he mutters more to himself, but Sherlock has heard him.

"John…" he begins again, interrupting himself for the sake of breathing.

No, is all John can think. "Fine," is what he says. "I'll go. I'll be back in a while."

He makes it down the stairs and almost collapses onto the first step.

He doesn't want to leave Sherlock. He doesn't want Sherlock to leave.

Not even for the tiniest amount of time.

That is why he is back upstairs only minutes later, approaching the sofa and his prone best friend.

What if he leaves and Sherlock dies during his absence? What if Sherlock is alone, in the end? No. This isn't going to happen, John decides. He is not _going _to let it happen.

"Back… already?" Sherlock greets him, sounding almost half-asleep. "Told you. Not… going anywhere."

The only sound John can make with the lump in his throat is a huff. Sherlock blinks at him sleepily as he readjusts the blankets.

"Neither am I," he tells his best friend. "Not even for milk."

xxx

Sherlock is covered in cold sweat after John has woken him up from a nightmare that has sent him shifting and his pulse racing, the second one that night.

"'m fine," Sherlock all but stammers while he attempts to control his breathing.

"Slowly, Sherlock, slowly," John reminds him, his voice steady, as are his hands he is resting on Sherlock's shoulders to prevent him from trying to sit up. His insides, however, are leaping up and down, with his heart in the leading role.

A nightmare. As if it hadn't been bad enough already.

By the time Sherlock has calmed down enough for John to relax a tiny bit, he is still drenched in sweat and cold.

Softly wiping the greying hair from his friend's face, John makes a decision. "Stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

He is, in fact, faster than that, bringing a cloth und a bowl full of lukewarm water.

Sherlock doesn't tense as John starts to wash his face and neck and then arms as gently as possible, removes his soaked shirt and replaces it with a clean one. He complies, yes, but barely supports John's actions, simply being too drained, too exhausted.

"You… don't have to do… that," he says flatly, his head resting limply against John's shoulder as John fiddles with the t-shirt.

"I know," is John's only reply. "I'm your friend, remember? You won't get me to leave you."

Even in the semi-darkness of the bedroom he can see Sherlock's tiny smile.

John remains seated on the bed, not wanting to let go of Sherlock, somehow being haunted by the irrational fear that Sherlock might break if he put him back down on the pillows.

So he doesn't.

xxx

"Bad night?" Sherlock asks in the morning, noticing John massaging his neck and shoulders.

John shrugs.

His friend attempts to stare at John, to lock his gaze on him. "You should… sleep in the nights…" he states.

Sleep. How could he sleep?

"It's not heal… thy," Sherlock continues, "and you can't… help me… any…"

"Shut up," John interrupts him. "Shut the fuck up. Do you know what you're talking about? Do you seriously think sleep matters to me now? You're my best friend, and I will be damned if I leave you alone now!"

Once again, Sherlock is silenced, taken aback. "John…" he mumbles feebly.

"I said: Shut up," John repeats, not looking at his friend. Avoiding his gaze, in fact.

"I… John…" A cough interrupts him, a cough which sends shivers down John's spine. Now he does turn to look at Sherlock, almost unearthly pale.

"Breathe," John tells him firmly.

But of course Sherlock makes for speaking as soon as he is able to draw breath again. "I… I think I… feel… honoured," he manages. "You…"

John flinches when another coughing fit seems to begin, causing Sherlock to make a horrible wheezing sound. All John can do is sit there and watch, gripping Sherlock's hand, willing him to breathe.

Which he does, finally.

"No need… to… to worry," Sherlock chokes out, his skin clammy and cold, his hand slack in John's. "Got the… best… doctor… I could… wish… for…"

And although Sherlock's eyelids flutter and slip close only seconds later, John knows that he will never forget those words. Because he understands what Sherlock has meant, understands even those words Sherlock didn't say.

And he also knows that he will stay, until the end, no matter how much he is aching. Aching all over, even inside.

xxx


	5. Part 5

I don't own… You know.

* * *

_I'm Still Here_

Part 5

xxx

"Remember the look Mary's mother shot you when she thought you had just…" John can barely finish his sentence, his own giggling interrupting him. Old men like him shouldn't giggle anymore, but he can't help it. "…when she thought you had just proposed to Lestrade…"

Sherlock's light laughter sounds even more breathless than John's erratic giggle, he notices nonetheless. "Yes," Sherlock confirms hoarsely, "I am sure… she wouldn't have let me… become… your daughter's godfather."

Certainly not, no. "I had to blackmail you into agreeing," John reminds his friend.

Sherlock nodds silently, still smiling.

His daughter. "Do you mind that she won't be able to come?" he wants to know. "I know you like her."

It takes a few seconds for Sherlock to catch his breath enough to be able to answer. "No," he mumbles. In a intuitive movement, John reaches for Sherlock's hand and holds it tightly. "It's good…" Sherlock continues. "It's fine… the way it is. Absolutely… fine."

John certainly doesn't imagine his best friend squeezing his hand and returning his grip.

When Sherlock falls asleep on the sofa only minutes later, John's hand resting on his head and subconsciously playing with the grey streaked curls, he can still hear what Sherlock hasn't said, hasn't needed to say because he knows that John will understand.

_You__'__re here. That__'__s enough._

xxx

It is the last time Sherlock succumbs to sleep on the sofa.

When John enters his friend's bedroom the next morning, he finds Sherlock lying on the pillows, paler than before, and frail, breathing fast.

He exchanges the morphine drip, gets another blanket and covers Sherlock with it, and leaves the room.

Only minutes later he comes back, restless, carrying a chair and a book, and settling down right beside the bed, hardly focusing on his book, but rather on Sherlock.

He appears so thin, John can't help but has to think, so… fragile. As if he has barely any muscles left. And sick, his skin a greyish tone, his lips a light blue.

They're nearing the end, John has to admit to himself. The end.

xxx

It is rather shocking how difficult formerly perfectly normal things can become once you've grown older. Going to the loo is a torture, maybe even moreso for himself than for Sherlock, John supposes, although it certainly proves to be more physically demanding for Sherlock. John would carry him, every single time, if he still had the strength to do so. And he is not willing to make a try and risk anything.

When John helps Sherlock back from the toilet for the third time that day, Sherlock panting next to his ear and barely having the strength to cling to John, he speaks out aloud for the first time what he has been thinking about for a few days already.

"There are other possibilities, you know," he tells Sherlock, in his bed again, his heart rate at least no longer as fast as before, but far from back to normal. Sherlock's hand feels cold and clammy in his, and limp. "Urinary catheter…"

He trails off, not knowing how to continue.

"John," Sherlock mutters groggily, not opening his eyes. "I don't… don't think th… that will be… nece…necessary."

_I don__'__t think that will be necessary._

John's grip on Sherlock's hand tightens as he struggles to swallow. "Ssh," is all his vocal chords will produce. "It's alright. Sssh."

After Sherlock has fallen asleep, or lost consciousness, and with each inhale, his breaths seem to become flatter and flatter, John wonders if the last thing he will have said to his best friend is 'ssh'.

xxx

It isn't.

Sherlock wakes again a while later, and this time, his eyes are glazed over.

"John…" he mumbles distractedly and tilts his head to the side, far enough to let John see the distended veins on his throat.

"I'm here," he whispers, not trusting his voice. "I'm here, Sherlock."

At the first moment he thinks his eyes are betraying him in the dim light of the room, but then realises they aren't - Sherlock is smiling.

"As always," he replies flatly. "My… loyal blogger… loyal… friend…"

So then. This is the end, the end of… John stops himself and concentrates on Sherlock instead.

"Sherlock," he says softly.

Sherlock blinks heavily, but his frail smile deepens.

John cannot find any words. What does one say to one's best friend who is dying? What words are there to describe what Sherlock means to him? Are there any?

John doesn't know. He's talked to Sherlock's grave once, a long time ago, and still, not even the words he has used back then seem appropriate, seem intense enough to express what he wants to say.

"You are the best friend I… I could ever have wished for, and… and I will ever wish for," is what he settles on, unshed tears making his voice tremble.

Sherlock's eyes close. "John…" he breathes again, his expression almost a grimace now. "I… sentiment… too old for that, are we… John…" he slurs, panting hard.

John probably is crushing his hand, but he finds he doesn't care. All that counts now is to show Sherlock that he's there, that he will always be there. "Ssh," he tries to calm his friend, "don't talk. Relax."

Sherlock doesn't listen - an old habit, the thought crosses John's mind.

"John…" he begins again, not wanting to be silenced. Not yet. "I'm glad it's… the way it… is… with me… here and you… alright… body's… failing me… nothing… new…"

A shaky inhale, shaky and barely sufficient. A thready heartbeat.

"'s… OK…" Sherlock slurs on nonetheless. "Used to… to trans… port… betraying me… it's fine…"

Fine. It's far from fine, everything is. Sherlock is. And though… Sherlock's heart will kill him eventually, but without his brain, still intact now, he would fall apart first and die then.

"Yes," John croaks. "Yes."

Sherlock tries to turn his head towards him. A weak movement is all he manages. An icy fist clenches John's heart as he bows down to Sherlock, locking his gaze with Sherlock's glassy eyes.

"Didn't even… expect to… reach sixty… three," Sherlock gasps and grimaces. "Die… young…"

Becoming less coherent. Not succeeding in supplying his body with enough oxygen. John feels as if he cannot breathe himself.

"Sherlock…" he chokes out and feels a tear dripping down his face.

With great effort, Sherlock blinks his eyes open again. His eyes. Memorise them, John's brain tells him, before they fall shut again, only leaving John to witness the terrifying wheezing.

Fingers are softly brushing his hand, an echo of a grip.

"John…" As Sherlock mumbles his name this time, John again notices the blueish tinge of his lips, combined with his panting. Not long now. Not long.

"Sssh," he says again, resting his left hand on Sherlock's cheek. "It's alright, alright. Everything's fine."

Sherlock attempts a smile again. "Fine…" he breathes flatly. "Yes, fine…"

xxx


	6. Part 6

I don't own any of the characters.

**Warnings: **Nearing the end, so... Character death in this chapter. For those of you who still feel inclined to continue... here it is.

* * *

_I'm Still Here_

Part 6

xxx

Sherlock's sleep seems to be uneasy, restless, maybe painful.

Watching his best friend sleep and shift weakly causes John's stomach to lurk and his tired eyes to burn.

It takes three minutes of inner turmoil until he agrees with himself to increase the dosage of morphine Sherlock is receiving slightly - slightly. For one second, his hands are shaking and he wonders if he should simply… if he should simply… It would be peaceful. And quick.

And it would mean that John would never talk to Sherlock again, and he finds he is not ready for that. Not yet. Sherlock is not ready yet - not for it to happen this way.

As soon as Sherlock's slumber has become more undisturbed, he tells himself that he has made the right decision.

And when Sherlock groans quietly and blinks his eyes open again, the first word on his lips being 'John', he knows that it has been the right one, in fact.

xxx

"You're… still… here," Sherlock observes, John's hand still entwined with his.

A smile tucks at John's lips. "Of course," he replies solemnly. "Where would I go?"

Sherlock looks at him, something akin to curiosity in his eyes, curiosity despite his drowsiness. "Did you… e… ever… regret any… thing?"

John doesn't even need to think about that. "No," he croaks and knows that it's the truth. "No."

Sherlock exhales slowly and pauses a moment before drawing his next strained breath. "Then it's… good. Fine…"

Carefully, gently, John presses Sherlock's motionless hand to his cheek. "Of course it is," he tells his best friend. "We'll be fine. As always."

Sherlock's lips tremble, but he's lacking the strength for a real smile now. Instead, he tightens his grip on John's hand.

"If you… you'd te… tell me now to… sleep…" Sherlock slurs barely understandable and with his eyes closed, "I don' thin'… I'd… dis… agree…"

John's finger are softly caressing the back of Sherlock's hand. "Then sleep, Sherlock," he whispers. "I'll be here."

They both now what they are talking about.

xxx

Sherlock's sleep is calmer this time, not disturbed by anything.

Then all happens quickly.

His breaths become more uneven, more laboured, tinier.

Unconsciousness comes, losens his grip on John's hand he has still been clinging to while merely asleep, and takes him unbidden.

John gently presses a kiss to his best friend's forehead while never letting go of his hand.

Sherlock doesn't wake again.

They don't get any more goodbyes this time, but they never really needed some. Never really needed words.

John can't resist the urge to keep his fingers on Sherlock's wrist, to measure his thready pulse one last time.

Before it's over.

And suddenly, it is.

xxx


	7. Part 7

I don't own the characters…

* * *

_I'm Still Here_

Part 7

xxx

John is surprised that he does not collapse, or faint, or break into hysterical sobs.

_Sherlock__'__s dead_, that's the thought his brain keeps repeating, but he doubts that he is able to process it yet.

There are tears rolling down his face and dropping onto Sherlock's hand, still the IV cannula in its back, salty moisture on pale skin.

Single tears, not an entire flood of them. Maybe more will come later.

John keeps holding Sherlock's hand until it gradually becomes colder, until he can't bear seeing the too blue lips any longer.

When he calls Mycroft, stiff and sore from the long period of sitting, he doesn't need to say anything. Mycroft knows.

Some time later, John doesn't pay attention to the time passing, there are people in the flat, foreign people, and Mycroft, and John lets them do whatever they need to until they carry Sherlock away.

He silently thanks Mycroft and leaves the flat.

xxx

It hasn't been dramatic. Sherlock hasn't been.

There have been no final words, no theatrical final gasp, no stiffening, nothing.

Just nothing. No breathing, no pulse.

John isn't surprised that he finds sleep in this night, in his cheap hotel room, but rather that it is dreamless. There are no pictures of Sherlock, of Sherlock asleep, or dead, or alive.

Just nothingness.

When he wakes again, curled up as far as still possible with his so immobile limbs, nothing comes rushing back to him with shocking clarity. He has known that Sherlock is gone, and he will always know.

He remembers to call his children, both of them, their voices sad with grief on the telephone.

"I'll be here soon," his daughter tells him, clearly worried, and John barely stops himself from saying 'I'm fine.' They wouldn't believe him, anyway.

xxx

John's return to 221B isn't easy, but necessary. He has had to leave, the atmosphere there being too heavy and the memories, the memories of Sherlock too fresh, too… shattering, but not for a long time, of course. One night, that has been it.

Everything's still as it's always been - only Sherlock's bed is empty, the drip stand still besides it.

John wanders the flat he has left not even one day ago, feeling nothing.

He sits down on the sofa, concentrating on breathing.

And has to smile when he starts talking out loud. Talking to someone who isn't there anymore.

"Look at me," he mumbles quietly. "An old man, talking to himself. Look at me, Sherlock."

His gaze meets the almost ancient skull on the mantlepiece, and his smile deepens. "Talking to dead men or to skulls. Doesn't make a difference, don't you think?"

And somehow, the flat suddenly feels less lonely.

xxx

He meets Mycroft again, the next day.

"You've been with him, I trust?" Mycroft asks, seemingly cold and distant as always.

John isn't so easy to deceive anymore.

"Yes," he croaks, remembering the cooling of Sherlock's hand in his. "And you haven't been there for him because…?"

He doesn't intend to sound accusing, doesn't intend anything, but somehow, this is how the words come out.

Mycroft regards him for a few seconds, the wrinkles in his face deepening. "I was there when he was born," he finally says, his voice low. "We have had our goodbyes. It wasn't me he needed by his side."

John nods curtly and swallows. Just when he has already turned around, Mycroft continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I am not sure if I could have watched my own brother die."

John smiles sadly, but understands.

xxx

John is grateful that Mycroft has taken care of everything, of all the formalities, of arranging for a funeral.

It is well attended, former clients, admirers, old colleagues…

For John, it's already Sherlock's second funeral.

All the time while various people are giving eulogies and talking and talking and talking, he wonders what is different this time.

Kate is sobbing by his side as they approach the coffin, sobbing and clinging to him. His daughter, grieving for her godfather.

John finds himself staring into the coffin, staring at a too pale face.

"He looks peaceful," Kate croaks.

No, John has to think. Not peaceful. Peaceful isn't a term he would use to describe Sherlock now. He looks dead, and bored, and… maybe even content.

'It was time,' a voice says in his head.

Old men, yes. And while is still seems too early to John, it's… alright. Well, not alright, not really, of course not, but it simply is what happens in life.

And truthfully, there have been times in his life when he never expected to reach fifty. When he never expected Sherlock to reach fifty.

Considering that, it's fine.

It's fine, that's what Sherlock has said, too.

Maybe that's the difference, the difference to the first funeral. They have been together, and they have had the time to come to terms with what is happening. The time to say farewell.

Fine.

Because Sherlock Holmes has not died alone. Because John has been there. Because John has not left his best friend alone. Because they have been _together_.

Remembering all the time they have spent with each other, John smiles. He will never forget Sherlock, and he will never stop missing him, but somehow, it's fine.

Because Sherlock Holmes said so himself, and because John's still here, in the world, and because Sherlock has been fine, in the end.

And that's what counts.

"Fine, Sherlock," he whispers while still holding his daughter in his arms. "We'll be fine."

_Finis_

* * *

This is it, then.

Thank you for all the reviews, the follows and favourites... and of course, most of all, for reading.

If you'd like to let me know what you think now, don't hesitate!


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